


Reckoning

by KaisaSegher



Series: Counting Scars [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Season/Series 06 Spoilers, Smut, past abuse (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: Sansa shied away from those moments, when she felt hope again like nothing bad had ever happened to her or the ones she loved. Every time she had felt this safe or this content in life something awful had happened shortly afterwards. Although lately that fear tended to clash furiously against the feeling that whatever terrible things the gods had saved for her surely by now their stock was over.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this happens between chapters 6 and 7 of Books and Stitches, because I can't seem to have enough of this two. Perhaps this will be the end of this story or maybe I'll be weak again and write some more before I move on to other stories. We'll never know.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!  
> PS: sorry for so much dialogue, but people talking seems to be the only thing I can write right now.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Someone grabbed her from the hallway and pulled her to what should be the darkest corner of the castle. Her heart hastened, not out of fear but because she knew that voice too well.

“You cannot do this,” she scolded, resting her hands on Jon’s shoulders. “You cannot just snatch me every time you feel like it.”

He kissed her then, partly because he wanted and partly to prove a point. Sansa missed him just as much as he missed her, after all. Her worries were not so much about Jon kissing her whenever he wanted to, but mostly about putting her servants in such a complicated position. If there was nothing to be seen they had nothing to report, and if there was nothing to be reported there was no one to betray, lady or queen.

“How are you?” Jon asked, cupping her cheek.

“Well enough, but when I woke up you were not there,” Sansa complained, pouting.

“If I had stayed it would have been really funny, don’t you think? Some of your maids waking you up and finding out there’s a man in bed with Lady Stark,” Jon argued.

“I am not questioning the motive, just the result. And it makes me unhappy all the same.”

Her stomach growled, reminding her that half a day had passed since she last ate. Sansa giggled, embarrassed.

“Perhaps you should eat, Lady Stark,” Jon joked, walking away from her. “And maybe take some time to rest later. I do not know what happened, but you seem to have missed a good night’s sleep.”

She leaned against the wall, smiling like the silly girl she once was would have. Sansa shied away from those moments, when she felt hope again like nothing bad had ever happened to her or the ones she loved. Every time she had felt this safe or this content in life something awful had happened shortly afterwards.

Although lately that fear tended to clash furiously against the feeling that whatever terrible things the gods had saved for her surely by now their stock was over.

“Remember you will have a feast in Lady Lyanna Mormont’s honour later today,” Jon shouted, across the corridor.

“I do hope she is in a good mood,” Sansa whispered, smoothing the skirt of her dress and readjusting her braid. She had an audience with some farmers that morning, worried about the possible lack of provisions for the long winter about to arrive. Sansa had to be Lady Sansa Stark now.

Her stomach rumbled again. All right, she would break her fast first.

* * *

 

“Morning, m’lady,” both girls greeted, standing up as soon as Sansa entered the great hall and sitting again only when their lady took a sit next to them.

“Jocelyn, you should order some food for Lady Sansa. I’ll stay here, in case she needs anything,” Alys said, perhaps with too much authority.

Jocelyn stood up again and nodded in agreement. Sansa waited patiently for the girl to leave, leaning back on the chair and resting her hands on her lap.

"Alys, there is something I have to ask you," Sansa started, fidgeting with her sleeves. "I know you are not a fool, although for some time I had hoped you were.”

She took a moment to breathe. How could she talk about that? What words should she chose? Sansa decided the best way to do this was as simple and clear as possible.

“I need to ask you about my cousin."

Alys eyes widened and her breath got caught in her throat. She gulped once, twice.

"What... What about your cousin, m'lady?"

"That is what I had hoped you would tell me," Sansa answered, squaring her shoulders and reminding herself who she was. "What do you think of him? What does everyone think of him?"

Alys gulped again.

Then she combed her dark hair with her fingers. She adjusted her sleeves.

A sigh.

Sansa started to lose hope she would get an answer at all.

"I think my opinion hardly matters, m'lady," Alys finally said, lowering her eyes.

"Well, it does. To me, at least. I know why Jocelyn and you do it. I am not that daft."

"M'lady, I... We never thought you were!" Alys interrupted, each word running over the previous one as the girl’s eyes seemed to almost shoot out of her face.

"I know, I know!" Sansa assured her, reaching for Aly’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "And I am certain you recall where your loyalty lies. I know it is just because the queen is above me and all that. And I know, and you know too, that there is nothing I can do against it. If I punish you for following her orders I will be accused of treason and one does not want the Dragon Queen to do that."

Sansa took a moment to breath. It was cathartic to lay her game on the table, in spite of being taught not to do so anymore. It was like not having to pretend to be anyone else but herself when she was alone with Jon. She had to be herself with Alys too, now. If she had any hope to be finally happy she had to be totally honest to her men and women.

To her people.

"I am going to be blunt about it. Would a marriage between my cousin and me anger the Northmen?” she asked dryly, looking the girl in the eye. “Because I refuse to do the same late prince Rhaegar and late king Robert did to our country. I will not tear it apart on a whim of mine. And certainly not if it is against my people's wishes."

With her judgment clouded by lust, she had promised she would face the queen’s army for Jon. Sansa. Not her people. They had suffered enough atrocities already in other people’s reckless games.

"I don't know a lot about lords and ladies' matters, m'lady, but I think it's hardly the same situation,” Alys said. “They fought because of a girl that some say didn't love or cared about any of them."

"And I believe she was just the excuse, after all," Sansa added. "Everyone wanted the Targaryens gone by then. Lyanna was just the spark that lighted the fire, although nobody asked her what her thoughts on the matter were. But that is hardly my point."

"To answer your question, m'lady," Alys almost interrupted, perhaps over-eager to finally share something she was thinking for quite some time. "I think there's no one in the North that would be against it. At least no one who's wise enough to think, that is, and that are the people whose opinion should matter to you. They see your cousin as a war hero, a great leader. They call him 'Freer of the North' when they think no one from south of the Neck is listening. They say he is a man as honourable as your lord father or your grandfather, m'lady.”

Sansa listened quietly, her mind finding a little bit more of peace with each word falling from Alys’s lips. If her people was with her, then at least she could argue the queen that her marriage was for the benefit of the North, not only for her personal happiness.

“And you are our lady, the Stark in Winterfell, the one that brought our world back to its proper place,” Alys continued. “Sure, your cousin swung his sword, but he’s not a Stark and his rule could never be as solid as yours. So if, and only if, the queen in the South doesn't let you have it your way then I'm sure a thousand swords would rise in your name."

"We don't need any more bloodshed," Sansa cut, raising her hand in the air to shut the girl up. “I do not want more blood spilled in our land. By our men and women and children. I will not have it so.”

“I know, m’lady. But the queen does not,” the girl retorted, calmly. “And if I was a newly arrived queen from a dynasty most of the North still hates I would do my best not to anger the Northmen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (maybe they're not called 'Northmen'? I'm not sure that's the right way to call them)  
> Btw, I know I've failed but by Tuesday night (gmt+1) I promise chapter 2 will come (maybe sometime before that, let's keep our fingers crossed). It's just I was busy packing for uni and all of that. And tomorrow I have a plane to catch and an 8 hour trip, so I'm not in the happiest, most creative place now. Sorry...


	2. Chapter 2

She sat on her lord father’s chair, overlooking the great hall. In a moment, her guests would arrive and Sansa would have to listen, decide, and give orders the best she knew.

How she wished Ser Davos had stayed longer. At least he always knew what the people wanted to hear. But the Onion Knight had left, disappointed yet again when he realized neither Sansa nor Jon had any wishes to rule over Westeros, not even the North itself, after the Dragon Queen had taken King’s Lading for herself. He had followed King Stannis first, and had thought that Jon Snow would fill the void his master had left. However, Ser Davos had found is life empty of any purpose, and so he was gone as soon as he decided that Winterfell was in more than capable hands.

And, of course, even if Jon could sit by her side, there was not much he could help her with either. Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch he might have been, but he had only his men to order around. Not mothers and fathers, not the elderly, not children. Jon never had to worry about alliances or the future. Jon just had to ensure his men survived until another dawn.

Thus, Sansa did what she knew best. Manners. Impressions. Appearances. If she did not know how to be Lady of Winterfell at least she knew how one should look and behave. She had the memory of her lady mother to thank for that. Sansa braided her hair the right way, put on a dress with the right colours and the right sigil embroiled on her chest and sat on Lord Eddard Stark’s chair.

Her chair. It was her chair now.

Jocelyn and Alys had left her to Cregan and Domeric’s care. The girls could not be of any assistance to her in that matter, Alys had argued, so perhaps Lady Sansa would not mind if they took their embroidery somewhere else. Sansa had agreed and now instead of two joyful young girls she was flanked by two very taciturn not so young men, too stiff on their places, holding their pikes maybe a little too tightly.

“Thing is, m’lady,” the tallest of the farmers, a man old enough to be her grandfather, explained in a grave voice, “Snow’s not the same as rain, you see. In the summer our crops grew as lush as we’d ever seen them. We thought it was the time that we’d be best prepared to endure the long winter.”

“I am aware of that,” Sansa answered calmly, trying desperately to mask her annoyance. She was so tired of men trying to explain her land to her. “I know my lord father made sure Winterfell was provided with the best seeds in the Seven Kingdoms, that we had the best irrigation system known to mankind, that the crops were planted at the right time and that every man and woman was paid fairly for their work.”

“We know, m’lady,” the man continued firmly. “Lord Eddard was an honourable man, and he took care of his people better than anyone could have. As we all believe you’ll do, m’lady.”

The men cheered, and Sansa smiled. Knowing she had their trust, for that were not hollow words from hollow men, terrified her and made her proud at the same time.

“But snow’s not the same as rain, and as soon as winter came, this time putting an end to the summer not as smoothly as other times, not as we all expected at least, the ice burned the leaves and grains and roots and fruits ripening in the trees before we could pick them.”

“So you are telling me that we could not have sufficient food for the winter?” Sansa asked, hoping desperately that any man denied what most of the people already knew as a fact. “You are telling me that our people might starve?”

“It depends on how long the winter will last, m’lady,” added one as bald as an egg. “Even if we had all the food in the world, if the winter lasts for a century we’d all starve anyway.”

She connected every point in her mind, like stitching patches of cloth together for a big blanket. People starving was terrible enough by itself. But she knew that was just a small patch of consequences. Sansa knew starving people did not support their leaders. Starving people were more prone to turn their cloaks and turn their backs on their leaders. Starving people would follow a leader that put an end to their misery. The Dragon Queen had already done that in the past. It was how she had conquered a whole continent for an unknown girl in Westeros as she was at the time.

Sansa recalled what Alys had told her earlier that day. The queen did not want to anger the Northmen herself. But Sansa was sure she would accept more than gladly their anger against a lady that not only had disobeyed the queen’s orders about her marriage but also had let her people starve.

And then all would be lost. Again.

“You are telling me that it matters not the amount of provisions we have, there will be famine if the winter lasts longer than the food anyway,” she said, carefully so as not to lose herself in her own words. “So why are you here, now? Surely you think there might be a solution if you brought this question here. For if we are all doomed, what is the point of having this discussion?”

“M’lady.” It was the tall one again. “This time we think we’ve no more than for half a dozen years. And they’re saying this winter will last at least a decade. We need more time. We need more time to grow more crops.”

“I cannot change the weather or turn the wheels of time the other way around,” Sansa said, her patience almost gone. What did they expect from her? What could she do, after all? Of course she had prepared herself, she had studied the finances and how they could buy some food from Dorne or Highgarden, maybe. It would give them at least two years more, but that would still not be enough.

She kept on leaping from one thought to another, trying not to scream at every men before her. Why, why, why had they put such weight on her shoulders? Why worry her if there was nothing she could do?

“Domeric, fetch Desmond. I need him here as soon as possible,” Sansa urged, her eyes shining with hope as a wild idea crossed her mind. “And my cousin, too.”

It was a mad idea. Maybe it would not work. Maybe they would all starve after all. But it was better to starve when her people knew she had done everything she could. It was better to starve with Jon by her side and when her people had her back.

Or maybe it would work. There was only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is way different than what I had expected and I'm sorry! But I needed Sansa to actually do something, and face challenges not Jon related only. I promise the fluff will come back eventually, I hope sooner than latter. I really hope tomorrow, maybe? I'm missing it already.  
> As usual, please tell me if there's something wrong, I really appreciate each critique.  
> Thank you all for still being here!


	3. Chapter 3

“I know they are just gardens, more used as an ornament than anything else,” Sansa said, trying not to sound too excited. “But do you think we can make them… Bigger?”

Desmond, the man in charge for the reconstruction of Winterfell after the Stark flag flied once again over the castle, scratched his beard, looking at the ceiling as if his answer might be there. Sansa eyed Jon, trying unsuccessfully to find some support. Her cousin had his arms crossed and was more interested on the ground below his feet at the moment.

“Well, m’lady, we’d have to channel a lot of water from the hot springs. That’d be a colossal task, something never accomplished in the North,” Desmond finally said, his hands on his hips.

“I would say the whole country, to be accurate,” Jon added, in a whisper.

Sansa’s certainty shuddered, but she tried to stay as confident, or at least look as confident as she could, without given false hopes in turn to the men in front of her.

“But it could be done? That is, we have the means to do it?” she insisted.

“Well, not bigger, we couldn’t,” Desmond told them, not with too much conviction.

Oh, the gods saved them! What would she do, then? Sansa was sure she was the worst lady Winterfell ever had. Of course some challenges would cross her path. Of course there would be some rocks on her road.

Eventually. Not right now. Not when she still had to learn how to do her job properly. Not when some, she was sure, still doubted she was the fittest choice for her position.

“But we could build about a dozen of them, and that would have approximately the same result,” Desmond completed, more confident this time. “Yes, I think that’d be the right solution. More efficient, even. In such a large space the heath tends to disperse, but if we build many small glass gardens we can keep them warm with less water, after all.”

Glee filled Sansa’s chest, delighted with the confirmation that her plan could work. There was a way. After all there might be a way to escape this fate.

“Although, I guess, that would increase the cost in glass?” Jon suggested.

“If I may say something, m’lady,” requested the tall farmer. “I think we don’t have an abundance of glass ‘round here.”

“You are right, we have not,” Sansa answered. “But we could buy some from Dorne. Sand is what they have the most down there, after all.”

“I think we could make the glass here,” Jon said. “That would make it cheaper.”

“M’lady, give me half a moon, and I’ll give you my word I’ll come back to you with a solution,” Desmond vowed solemnly, his hand on his chest and all.

Sansa draw breath, trying to calm herself. Lady Stark. Not Sansa, the unexperienced, broken girl. Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She had three dozen men before her, and none of them was expecting anything less than a perfect solution from her.

“What do you say?” she asked her audience, still waiting for her decision in absolute silence.

The men whispered among themselves. There was some frowning, some shrugging.

“It’s the best chance we have, m’lady. We’ll trust your decision,” said the bald one.

* * *

 

“They will never forgive me if it does not work and we all die anyway.”

Sansa paced the room, her arms crossed under her breasts, maybe too tightly, and her wide sleeves floating around her like the dark wings of a crow.

“Or maybe it will and they will adore their lady even more,” Jon suggested as he threw another log in the fire. “We will never know until we try, and it is the best chance we have.”

This time it had been Jocelyn the one kind enough to leave them alone in the great hall, after the farmers had left, and Desmond and the guards were dismissed. Sansa had no doubt Alys had reminded the younger girl that their duty was with their lady, and when she asked to be left alone with her cousin or someone else that was exactly what they had to do.

“You are right,” Sansa decided, stopping in her place.

“Sometimes I am. I do not know why it still surprises anyone around here,” Jon said, smirking. “Although I am quite impressed that you came up with that idea on you own.”

“What? You think I can only think about ways of escaping anyone’s surveillance so I can sneak into your bed?” she joked, sitting on his lap and encircling his neck with her arms, her chest pressed against his.

Jon kissed her, his mouth as soft and warm as she recalled, a reminder of how much she had missed him all day.

“You never sneaked into my bed anyway,” he added, smiling against her neck and drawing small circles on her knees.

Her heart got heavier in her chest, sinking low in her belly. Were they really going to discuss that right now?

“You know why.”

Jon stiffed and his smile faded.

“I know why. I know I should not ask you too. But I think you should come,” Jon said, looking down. “We could just talk. Talk about anything you like. The new glass gardens, Cregan’s awful hair, Lyanna Mormont’s terrible temper…”

Sansa felt her throat dry. She could not. She could never. She would not go back there.

She knew she should make an effort. For him. It was always him that came to her, never the other way around. She knew that might bring some imbalance in their relationship, that she was in her territory and it was he, a bastard with nothing to call his own, that had to come to her every time.

“It does not look the same, you know?” he continued, his voice almost impossible to hear as if he too was afraid of his own words. “I promised. We changed everything we could. I do not even sleep in old father’s room anymore. We even changed that.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered, hiding her face in his neck. Perhaps if she disappeared there all her problems would fade away as well.

“So please, when you feel ready I can show you what is new in the quarters. We will do this together, if it helps you. I do not want you to avoid part of your own house. I do not want them to be able to still make you unhappy,” Jon explained, taking her hands in his.

He was right. Sansa could not let them affect her in any way anymore. She was Sansa Stark. She would take what belonged to her. She would take back everything they had taken away from her.


	4. Chapter 4

Lyanna Mormont might be just a girl too young to be the Lady of Bear Island. Too young to sit right next to the Warden of the North. Too young to dance and drink wine and listen to vulgar words spoken by inebriated men. She was too young, but then that was all war had left them. A whole generation of young lords and ladies whose fathers had been lost fighting other men’s battles.

At least they had that. Young lords, although perhaps a little green, brought the future with them. Strength to rebuild the land. Time to form stable alliances, to negotiate sensible marriages and to produce healthy heirs. Others had not been so lucky, after all. Lords with wrinkled faces, their sons lying still under the heavy snow. Ladies whose backs bent so much their noses almost touched the floor, their wombs dry long before the war, before they had to mourn the perfect boys they had born inside them for so many moons.

Lady Mormont was just a young girl, and Sansa thought she could be the only one around her that could really understand her situation.

“Of course, all the North would benefit from it. We would also send provisions to Bear Island whenever you ask for it, Lady Lyanna,” Sansa promised her, between sips of mulled wine.

“I think it is a most difficult task you ask of your people, my lady,” Lyanna noted. “A task, if successful, worthy of the greatest Kings in the North. If one is bold enough to make such a comparison, of Bran the Builder itself. Though you did not wish such a title, and that is quite a disappointment.”

Sansa should have seen it coming. The girl would not give her such a compliment and then miss a chance to hurl one of her darts at Sansa. Lyanna would never forgive or forget that she had sworn to bend the knee and then they had put another queen in another throne and the North had a different someone to bend to.

“Queen Daenerys is a good queen,” Sansa said, not with too much conviction. Not after the queen had bought spies in Winterfell, at least.

“Better than queen Cersei, I can give her that much. And I am not sure even that would pose a challenge,” Lyanna jested, soaking her bread on the broth. “But you must know that any Northman worthy of the tittle would raise their sword faster for you, or even your cousin, bastard or not, than for the southern queen.”

Sansa gulped, as she recalled Alys’s words.

Why was everyone around her so keen on war? Did they really prefer a bloodshed over accepting a queen they did not even knew? But another war was out of question for Sansa. It had been enough. Almost ten years had been quite enough.

“She has our interests in mind. She wants the North to be stable,” Sansa said, biting some bread.

“She wants the North to stay quiet. And you are talking about your marriage, I suppose,” suggested Lyanna, her lips pursed as her eyes left her plate and found Sansa’s face.

Sansa blushed. How could she feel so intimidated by a girl almost half her age? And where was everyone else to help her with this conversation? Did Jon really need to speak with that man on the other side of the great hall? Did Alys really need to sit three tables away from her lady?

“I have been told that our people is with me,” Sansa muttered, lowering her eyes. “That their wishes are the same as mine. And that maybe the queen fears the Northmen enough not to start another war at a time her throne is still wobbling.”

“So that is your plan, my lady? Your crops grow and your people eat as much as they want while the rest of the country has to ration their food. You are your people’s saviour, the wisest one in such a time of need, the one that kept them alive through the long winter,” Lyanna said, in a tone too solemn for her age. “And when you tell everyone that you are marrying Jon- the one that saved the North from the Bolton’s tyranny- when you tell everyone you will marry him against the queen’s own wishes maybe she will be smart enough to join the pieces together, see who would support whom and how she would lose inevitably. And then she would not only let you have it your way, but might even give you her blessing.”

Sansa did not even bother to ask where did Lyanna heard she was planning on marrying Jon. Perhaps they had not been careful enough, after all. Perhaps Alys and Jocelyn were not that loyal. But Sansa was sure there was no point in denying it.

She held onto that spark of hope as a drowning man to driftwood.

“That would be the idea, yes.”

Lyanna nodded, not saying a word. Sansa remembered something Jon had told her some time ago, when they were still at Castle Black, measuring and scrutinizing every option they had to conquer their home. A letter, sent to King Stannis. Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. At least Lyanna Mormont was with them.

The music changed to a cheerful tune, and men and women started to form pairs to dance, with just a few of them doing it with acceptable grace. Everyone deserved a night of entertainment, after everything they had gone through and before what was still to come. Sansa spotted Alys, grinning like she had never seen her, spinning around the room with a lank redheaded man, and Sansa could not help but smile.

“I hope I am not wrong when I think you liked to dance,” Jon said, suddenly behind her ear.

Well, maybe no one had denounced them after all. Maybe they had been the ones to condemn themselves all along. But they too deserved to enjoy themselves, so Sansa stood up and took Jon’s hand, and let him guide her to the centre of the crowd.

If this was all they had then gods be damned if she would not revel in it as much as she could.

“I missed you,” Sansa whispered, as the music and the voices around them got louder and she was almost sure no one would hear them.

“I missed you too. But we have all night.” Jon answered, smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this what you'd hoped for, Gerri+Wright+Ingerson?  
> PS: I hope next time we'll have what we've all been hoping for since the beginning of this story and that gives it that M-rate.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa let herself enjoy the feast as much as she could. She ate as much sweets as the servants offered her, and drank as much mulled wine as she could without her stomach or her reason turning against her. She danced to every tune the musicians played, no matter how fast or how sad it was. And she danced with anyone brave enough to ask her. Jon, Desmond, a men from Bear Island shorter than her. Even Tomard Cassel, who had inherited the post of Winterfell’s castellan from his uncle.

Lady of Winterfell she might be. But she was also young, and she had the right to relish those moments of distraction as anybody else. She had every right.

“I think we should go,” she told Jon, laying her hands on his shoulders as she approached the high table again. “Lyanna is gone, I think she was long past her bedtime.”

“We?” Jon asked, looking around nervously. However, everyone seemed to be more interested in wine or song than in the two of them.

“No one will notice, dear. You go first, I will follow you, or the other way around, whatever you like,” Sansa purred in his hear. “And I have missed you and you only danced about three songs with me and you told me we had all night. Well, part of it is already gone.”

She took a sit next to him and made a point of pouting excessively when he looked at her.

“Are you jealous I danced with other women?” Jon questioned, his eyebrows raised. But then he could not suppress his laughter.

Sansa slapped his arm, blushing. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“I am not jealous of them,” she scoffed, crossing her arms and squaring her shoulders. “What I have with you… That they cannot take away from me, no matter how much they wished to.”

Jon laid his hand on her knee, and smiled at her, his eyes flickering with joy. Or maybe with something else she did not dare yet give a name. It was not new anymore when he touched her, but the spark was just as sweet as the first time, without the nervousness, the uncertainty.

“Of that you can be certain, Lady Stark,” he assured her. “And you are right, as ever, we should go.”

Her heart drummed in her chest and her mouth went dry. She was brave enough. She was strong enough. She could do this. She was Sansa Stark. She was the Lady of Winterfell. Nothing would make her feel any less than that. Nothing in this world would make her believe she was ruined. Broken. Lacking.

“Would you be so kind as to show me your chambers, Jon?”

He took his hand from her leg and gulped as he looked straight ahead to the people spinning and jumping and laughing in front of them.

He gulped again.

“Are you sure?” he asked her.

“I would rather you went first. I promise I will be there in a moment, just wait for me right behind the door,” she told him, for the first time speaking to him with her mask on.

She needed to be brave. For him. It was not fair to him making him pay for other people’s wrong doing. They deserved to be happy. Jon deserved a good woman. A strong woman. Someone as kind and as tough as he was. Not someone disheartened as she.

But Sansa wanted Jon, and if she had to lie until she herself believed her own lie, believed that she was more than worthy of him, if she had to do it for them to have a future together she would do it gladly.

She felt like an appropriate amount of time and an eternity at the same time had passed after Jon had left when she finally stood up, straightened her back, lifted her chin, and after the music stopped, announced she would retire to her quarters and wished everyone a good night.

As her steps echoed on the stone walls, Sansa felt her courage weakening. The last time she had been on that specific part of the castle she had done so less than willingly, to say the least.

It was different. This time was completely different. Even she was different.

Sansa was glad she found no one in the corridors, everybody perhaps too busy with the feast, or already snoring in some corner. At least this time she did not need to invent some elaborate lie to explain why the Lady of Winterfell was in that particular part of the castle she always avoided at such a late hour.

There it was.

A new, clear, oak door.

If she looked hard enough to the walls barely lit by the already fading torches she could see that even the stones were brighter and sharper than the ones that had surrounded her all the way up there. It was strange, like if someone had added a whole new wing to the old castle. Like a giant hand had taken away her parents’ chambers and replaced them with something else entirely.

It was different. Not even the same place.

She breathed in.

The walls are not the same. Nothing bad happened behind these walls, after all.

Sansa breathed out and reached for the doorknob.

It was different. Everything was different. She was stronger, now.

“You are here,” Jon stated, almost jumping with surprise as she squeezed herself through the small crack she had dared open.

“I am here. Will you show me?” she requested, reminding herself to keep her eyes soft and her lips open in a small smile. Not all of this was an act anymore. Jon was there, and that truly eased her mind.

“Right, of course…” he said, nervously running his hand through his hair.

Sansa noticed how Jon clutched his hands firmly behind his back, as if to avoid touching her. That certainly would not do, so she hooked her arm in his, as if she needed to lean on him to walk. Well, Sansa was sure she did not need it, but it certainly felt better than not feeling his warm body against hers.

Jon was tense, and she thought who felt more nervous about this. Both of them had gone through worst things than walking into a room. It could not be that bad, could it?

“So… What do you want to see first?” Jon started.

“I thought the point was me coming to your room this time,” Sansa said, with her sweetest voice, gently caressing his arm with the tips of her fingers, trying as hard as she could to make him relax. “I think we should start there.”

Jon gulped. Again.

“Are you sure? I know it was me that asked you, but are you sure you did not have too much to drink? Maybe we are rushing this. You should go back. I think it is better if you go back,” Jon said, his words jumping over themselves.

Sansa’s heart twisted, disappointed. He was asking her to leave.

“You want me to go, then?”

“It is not that!” Jon cried, releasing himself from her. “Listen, Sansa. I love you. I truly do. And right now I wish for nothing more than hold you against me with such strength that you never feel afraid again. I want to kiss you, and promise you nothing bad will ever happen to you. And yes, there is little else I can think of all day besides unlacing all those ribbons you have on your dress until I can feel your skin beneath my fingers.”

Now was Sansa’s turn to gulp. She let her arms fall to her sides, and listened carefully, trying to convince herself that she was not delusional. That Jon had really said it. Just like that.

“I do not want you to go. I want to wake up in my bed tomorrow, with you in my arms. I want to do it every day until the day I die,” he continued. “But I do not want you to do something you do not want to do. I am just as happy to wake up in your bed instead. I just want to be with you, but I do not want it if it is against your wishes.”

“You are really silly sometimes,” Sansa grunted, exasperated.

How could he think, after all that had happened between them, after every lie and scheme she had come up with just so she could be with him, even for a moment or two, that she was feeling compelled to do this?

Sansa did the only thing that seem reasonable at the moment. She took the steps that still kept them apart, propped her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, well, I got a little carried away with the angsty-fluff stuff.  
> Sorry.  
> And sorry for the corny dialogue, but it just... happened.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So because I'm terrible, this chapter is a little longer. Enjoy!

Sansa could feel the taste of beer on Jon’s tongue, stroking hers until her lips felt numb and her legs got weak. He was the sweetest thing in the world and Sansa could not let him go. Ever.

Jon gripped her waist, his thumbs rubbing gently against her hipbones, soothing her, easing every muscle of her body. He did not seem too keen on letting go of her either.

She trailed her hands up his neck and then his jaw, his short beard tickling her palms. She found the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his curls the way she liked it. It always made him groan whenever her nails raked his scalp, and it never failed to make him be a little less cautious with her.

Sansa pressed herself against him until she could feel his heart beating against her own ribs. Not the same pace as hers, beating so fast she thought it might stop at any time, but with such cadence that she was sure both hearts created a magnificent tune she could dance to all night.

“Do you still doubt I am doing this willingly?” Sansa asked in a whisper, her forehead against his breastbone, still panting softly. “I love you, I have for some time now.”

Jon crushed her against him, his large hands stroking her back, his chest still heaving as he tried to recover the air he had consumed kissing her.

“Take me inside, Jon,” she said, lifting her head and looking him in the eye. “It is all right, I am fine, I promise. I just want you, right now. It was a long day away from you.”

He obliged, taking her hand and opening the door to his room. Someone had already lit the fire, bathing the room in a dancing golden tone, shadows fluttering on the walls.

She noticed the heavy curtains covering what would be the two windows of the room, on the opposite wall, but she could not decide, in the dark, what colour they would be. Jon also had a chair next to the fire, a new chair she had not seen before, and a small table with crooked stack of both new and old leather bound books. Perhaps he was working too much lately. There was a chest in a corner with a rumpled pile of what might be clothing on top of it.

“I… Hmm... I am sorry about this,” he apologized, crossing the room in a few strides and shoving the shapeless mass of fabric inside the chest in an instant. “I do not like it when they go through my stuff.”

“And you are not very neat yourself, I am afraid…” Sansa joked, with a half-smile.

She let herself relax a bit. Nothing was as she remembered. She could not even recall what room this had been. Well, she could, if she tried, but she decided she would rather not to. It would probably spoil the moment, and Sansa would not let dead traitors ruin her life any further than they already had. 

“Well, I am not used to having guests around here,” Jon said, rubbing his neck. “So, what do you think about it? It is nothing fancy, but…”

Sansa slid her hands around his waist and kissed him as tenderly as she knew how. Jon encircled her in his arms, almost smashing her against his chest. She sighed, satisfied as she thought she would never feel. She could not lose him, she would not bear losing him.

“I like it,” she said, smiling, when they had to break apart to breathe. “It suits you, I guess... Although I think there might be a couple of things that are not quite right, if you want my opinion.”

“I guess I could use some advice on the colours of the blankets. I just asked for ‘non-black’ ones, I am a little tired of the colour,” Jon jested, his hand caressing her hip again.

“That was not what I had in mind, though grey is not that much of an improvement, I am afraid,” she agreed, eying the bed, somewhat smaller than hers, in front of the fire.

She dragged her fingers lazily up his chest, as if assessing the quality of the fabric of his doublet, until she found the first button and twisted it in her fingers.

“This, for instance,” Sansa said, annoyed. “I am not very fond of this.”

Jon’s hand lowered slowly on her back until he could cup her bottom. Sansa jumped a little, surprised, but collected herself in less than a heartbeat.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jon asked, smirking, and she realized he had been aware of his effect on her.

“Well, you have it on, and that is wrong. You didn’t like my stockings that time in the study-“

“It was one time!” Jon interrupted her, rolling his eyes.

“Shut it. I have the right to dislike your clothes just as well, have I not?” she argued, undoing the second button.

“Sure, you have! All the right in the world, love!” Jon agreed quickly. “Let me just help you, then.”

She slapped his hand away.

“Oh, so we’re doing it this way, now?” Jon jested.

Sansa froze, her fingers halfway between the fourth and the last button.

Perhaps she should also take into account what he wanted. If it was the other way around she knew she would feel terrified.

Oh, gods, what was she doing? What was she thinking?

“Sansa? Love?” Jon called, cupping her face with both hands and looking her in the eye, a slight tone of panic in his voice. “It was just a joke, I swear! Gods, I’m sorry, it’s alright. I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, really!”

“I… I know,” Sansa said, forcing a smile. “It’s just that I enjoy undressing you.”

She felt the blood raise to her face, her skin suddenly hot with shame. Although she could be bold about what she did to and with him, speaking about it was always the hardest part.

“Then go for it. I like it when you undress me,” Jon assured her, taking her hand in his and guiding it to the last button.

Sansa slid the doublet through his arms and tossed it to the chest. Nobody would be surprised to find it there in the morning, after all. Then she busied herself with the laces of his tunic, taking it off in a moment.

“Now that’s better,” she approved, her hands caressing his strong arms, then his broad shoulders, sliding down his back. Standing on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against his, teasing him. She felt Jon’s heartbeat a little stronger against her own chest and his hands losing patience as they started their duel against the laces in the front of her dress.

“Ah, you’ll have to wait a little bit, dear,” Sansa said, interrupting the kiss. “I’m not done yet.”

She kissed him again, this time gently biting his lip so Jon would let her tongue meet his. Sansa felt the familiar tingling in the back of her head, and the free flow of blood in her veins, making her feel alive and whole again.

Complete. When she was with Jon, everything made sense. Finally, it all made sense.

Her hands left his back and traced the muscles of his chest, then of his belly, recognizing every plain and every valley.

Every scar.

He had too many, for a man so young. Her heart always twisted when she remembered his own men had betrayed him, once. That he had been dead, once. If it was not for the Red Woman, he would not be here, with her.

That he had recovered so fast from the blow still astounded her. Sansa admired him for that. That he had been so quick to punish them and never let it affect him ever again made her envy him. But, yet again, perhaps Jon too kept some secrets from her, and tried to look stronger than he really was when he was with her.

Her hand slid inside his breeches, making him groan against her mouth.

“No, not very comfortable,” she decided, kneeling down to take off his boots.

“It was good enough for me,” Jon grumbled hoarsely, lifting one foot, then the other, to help her.

“It will feel better, I promise.”

Sansa unlaced his breeches. When he was finally naked in front of her, she took a few steps back, her hands on her hips. Her eyes raked through his body, assessing him.

“Happy now?” Jon asked, impatience.

Sansa nodded, quite sure that he was the most perfect man in the world. Also, and because he was naked in front of her, because of her, certainly she was the luckiest woman too.

Her hands found the laces of her dress, and she undid them deftly. She could not hold back a smile, remembering how every time he tried to do it he was always so eager that he often needed help with the task.

Sansa let the dress fall to her feet, her eyes fixed on his, dark and wide. He licked his lips and his breath hasted again.

“I am getting tired of this,” he scoffed, grabbing her by the waist and tossing her on the bed. Sansa squeaked in surprise, giggling when her head hit the pillow.

“You’re not a very patient man, Jon,” she scolded.

He ignored her, kissing her neck instead. His hand squeezed one of her breasts and she too lost the ability to speak, arching her back against him. Jon trailed kisses down her chest, as his thumb played with her sensitive nipple until she started to moan, her nails scratching his shoulder.

“Now tell me, isn’t this better than undressing me?” Jon asked, kissing her just above her belly button. “Does it feel…? How did you say it exactly? ‘Quite right’ now?”

It was Sansa’s turn to ignore him, not because she wanted to, but because her head could not function properly.

Jon continued his path lower and lower. His hand left her breast and went to the curve of her knee instead.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like this stockings either…” she mumbled, covering her face with her arm.

“Oh, no, this ones are pretty. But I like your legs better,” he explained, peeling one leg first, achingly slowly. Then the other one. “And now I’m really tired.”

Jon parted her folds with his fingers and lowered his head between her thighs, stroking her with his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I really like talking to you, it's so nice changing ideas with people that have the same ship and the same feelings about this two. So just let me say sorry if I sometimes answer a little too enthusiastically. Thank you all, anyway!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So more smut, so you can't say I'm no doing anything for you... Enjoy!

Sansa pressed her fist to her mouth, trying to muffle a moan. Oh, by the gods, his tongue... His wicked tongue! One day it would kill her, she was sure.

"Cry as much as you want, love," he said, stopping for a moment but with his fingers still caressing the tender skin of her thighs. "They'll listen all right, but I'm just a bastard, nobody's trying to protect my honour around here. And you're not here, remember?"

"Just... just don't stop, Jon," she begged, her fingers closing in his hair.

Jon groaned, but obliged. She let a high pitched cry escape her lips, and Jon hummed in response, satisfied. His tongue twisted around her nub, making Sansa loose control of her own thoughts.

How could she not love him? How could she live without a man that did things like that with his mouth?

His beard scratched her sensitive skin, but she was barely aware of anything happening besides his lips on her again. He started to suck on her nub, and she arched her back, unable to control her own body anymore. Jon pressed his hand on her hip, keeping her in place as he lapped on her like she was the sweetest thing in the world.

Sansa’s nails scratched his scalp again, not caring if she was hurting him or not. Her mind could not be bothered by that at the moment. Her mouth was dry, her chest hurt, unable to get all the air it so desperately needed.

Jon slid a finger inside her with ease, for she was more than ready for him. Sansa was not sure how long could she last if he kept that torture on her. When he added another finger and crooked them so he could reach that spot he knew made her moan the loudest she was certain it would not take long.

Her body was covered in small beads of sweat, one of them rolling down her neck and losing itself on the blanket below. However, Sansa was sure the room was not warm enough for her to feel that feverish. It was his fault. It was all his fault. 

She felt the familiar tension in her neck, the hotness low in her stomach, and with a final stroke of Jon’s tongue waves of pleasure ripped through her body, almost too violent to bear. She cried out his name, certain she had waked the whole castle.

Well, let them know. Let them know Jon Snow had the best mouth in Westeros. And let them know that he had it only for her.

She panted, collapsing on the mattress, limp as a withered flower, too tired to keep her eyes open. Jon kissed his away up her body, his teeth gently biting her skin, most likely not bothering that it was damp with sweat. Sansa kept her hand in his hair, completely inert, still unable to move an eyelash.

She felt his breath on her face, warm and sweet, and opened her eyes. Jon’s face hovered above hers, his grey eyes exploring hers, unsure. Sansa understood and raised her head, kissing him. It was odd, and she was not sure she enjoyed it. But if he had been kind enough to kiss her there then it was the least he deserved.

“Do you really enjoy doing that?” she whispered, letting his head rest on the curve of her neck and stroking his dark curls.

Sansa had always assumed any man would be disgusted to put his face between a woman’s legs, shaking her head in disbelief every time she had heard a lady on King’s Landing or a maid in Winterfell talking about it. Surely no man liked doing that.

However, whenever Jon did it she always seemed unable to recall that thought in particular.

“You don’t?” he asked her, rolling to the side and covering them both with the blanket.

“I clearly do,” Sansa answered, throwing a leg of him and laying her head on his chest so she could hear his heartbeat, now a little steadier than before. “It’s just… You don’t have to do it, if you don’t like it, just because I do.”

Jon caressed her side, his short nails raising goosebumps all over her skin, making her shiver.

“I like it when you scream my name. I like it that you moan like that because of me, because of something I did to you,” he explained. “And I like to make you feel good.”

Sansa trailed his chest with her fingers, stretching her neck so she could kiss him again.

She thought she was doing something for Jon, coming here. To show him that she could be strong enough.

For him. For him she could do anything. Nobody would get in the way. Neither a dead lunatic nor an arrogant queen.

But surely she was the one getting something out of this, not Jon. So far, at least.

“Would it feel good if I did the same? For you, I mean,” Sansa suggested, hesitantly.

Jon looked at her, surprised, and lifted himself so he was sitting with his back against the headboard. Sansa mimicked him, her heart jumping to her throat, somewhat terrified. Did she say something wrong?

“Sansa, you don’t have to,” he said, running his hand through his hair, as if trying to gain some time to find the right words. “I would never ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m the one doing that part, I think,” she told him. “So would you like it or not?”

Jon avoided her gaze and gulped.

Then he nodded.

Sansa took that as her cue, rolling so she was on top of him, a curtain of copper falling to her sides and shielding both of them from view. She lowered herself until her lips brushed his neck, her hands roaming freely through his chest. It amazed her that, after many moons of looking at him from afar, wanting to touch him and being afraid to do so, now she could feel any part of his body whenever she wanted to.

Actually, whenever she wanted to and there was no one around, but that was just a nuisance.

She sucked on his collarbone, making him hiss.

“Sorry, did that hurt?” she asked, frightened.

“No, love, quite the opposite,” he answered, his voice already croaky.

Sansa’s chest swelled with pride. She could understand why he liked to hear her moan. It was about power, really. That someone with so little could make another come undone.

Her hands caressed his sides as her mouth continued its path downwards. Sansa could hear Jon’s breath going ragged, and she had barely touched him yet.

She shoved the blanked away and smirked, gently biting his hipbone. She was awarded with a low grunt for that, which made her even prouder. Finally, her hand slid through his belly, finding his half erect cock and making Jon hiss again.

“Just… Just stop when I tell you, please,” he begged. “Otherwise I guess the night will be over too soon.”

Sansa swallowed, gaining courage as she circled him with her hand, pumping tentatively. Jon thrusted his hips up, his eyes shut and his hands fisting the sheet behind him. It could not be that difficult, could it? She lowered her head and took him in her mouth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you wanted smut, no? Here you go, though I'm not responsible for the (lack of) quality of it. Hope you enjoy, anyway  
> PS: I noticed that there are some words misspelled, some missing and some repeated, and I'm sorry for not being careful enough. I'll try to correct them as soon as possible.

It was strange, at first, but not displeasing. Sansa did not exactly know what to do, so she paid attention to Jon’s reactions as much as she could.

First, she tried sucking, and that had made him pant, so she thought that had probably been a good idea. Then she had decided to use her tongue, starting at the base of his shaft and slowly reaching his head. It was awkward, her hair always on her way, but although Jon had seemed too busy groaning to notice, he still found the time and strength to gently hold it to one side as his fingers tangled in her red tresses.

Sansa held him by the base and gently moved her hand up and down, for he had surely enjoyed it when she had done that before. He growled again, and she thought she might have broken him for good. Maybe he would not be able to talk anymore.

Good. Now he would see what he did to her.

“Is this all right?” she asked, frowning.

Jon nodded vigorously, and then let his head fall back against the headboard, the muscles of his neck straining below his skin as she sucked his head again, swirling her tongue around it, as if she was kissing him.

“Oh, gods!” Jon yelped, his hand tightening on the back of her head. Sansa took that as a yes, and she had never felt so content with herself. She was getting wet again, just by having him like this, in a perfect mess.

Sansa tried to suck harder this time, and his hips jerked upwards, as if something had stung him.

“Stop, please, just stop!” he pleaded, trying to sit up and, at the same time, pushing her away by her shoulders.

“Did I do something wrong?” Sansa asked, sitting back.

Jon leaned back again, gasping desperately. His black curls had stuck to his forehead and his eyelids seemed too heavy for him to open. What had she done wrong? She thought she was doing her best… Perhaps that was not enough.

“Oh, love, it’s not that!” Jon assured her, still short of breath. “It was great, really.”

“You haven’t finished,” she observed, somewhat disappointed.

“I… I almost did… But I want to be inside you, when I do.”

Sansa felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She tucked her hair behind her ears, trying to gain some time before he noticed she was embarrassed. She wished one day they would be able to talk about those things without her feeling self-conscious.

Jon opened his eyes and looked at her, smiling.

“You look so beautiful when you blush,” he said, pulling her to his lap and biting her lip. “But there’s no need for that, it’s just me, after all.”

“Like being you was something without importance,” Sansa scoffed, resting her head on his shoulder.

She did not wish to hear his retort, so she dragged her hand through his stomach again, grabbing his cock once more.

“Gods, you’re going to kill me,” Jon whispered, as she lowered herself on him until he was completely sheathed inside her.

Sansa let her head fall back, her loud moan echoing through the room. If there was still someone in Winterfell that was unware Jon had a woman in his bed they surely knew by now. She bit her lip, letting herself breathe for a moment as she tried to adjust to his size. Perhaps she had rushed it somewhat, but now was too late to complain.

“Are you all right?” Jon murmured hoarsely in her hear. She almost came undone just because of his voice. It was one of her favourite things about him. And about his mouth, too. He truly had the best mouth in the world. Perhaps one day she would ask the queen to proclaim it so. 

Jon Snow, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the Dragon Queen's nephew, Defeater of Death, Best Mouth in the Seven Kingdoms. 

She felt like laughing, though that would be a wrong answer to his question. She nodded instead, putting her hands on his shoulders to gain some leverage before she started to move, certain that she herself would not last very much if he let her do whatever she wanted.

Jon grabbed her by the waist, helping her lift herself and then fall back again, his groans mixing with the sound of flesh against flesh and her own cries of pleasure. Sansa was sure she would be sore and bruised in the morning. She suspected that perhaps she would not be able to walk straight for a couple of days, but that meant nothing.

She let herself fall back, supporting her weight with her arms so his cock was now rubbing that spot that would make her cry at any moment. Jon took one of her breasts in his hand and squeezed it, taking advantage of the extra space she had given him.

Sansa felt her whole body tighten, as she desperately tried to keep the same frenetic pace before she exhausted herself. She was close, so close! 

“I won’t last long, love,” Jon warned her, almost unable to speak.

“Then help me!” she demanded, seizing his free hand and guiding it to her nub.

Jon took the hint well enough, rubbing his fingers against her.

“Oh, Jon!” Sansa cried, her hips desperate to find his touch.

Within a few strokes she was shivering, her eyes screwed shut and her mouth open but unable to make a sound.

Without her noticing how he had done it, Jon was on top of her, his movements growing more and more erratic as his moans got louder. Sansa grabbed his buttocks, as if to push him harder inside of her, so he could find his own release as soon as possible. Her cunt was starting to sting, now too sensitive for her to bear this much longer.

Thank all the gods, he did not last.

“Sansa…” he chanted, against her neck, over and over, until he could not move any longer, collapsing on top of her.

Sansa caressed his back, as they both recovered their breaths, her body completely limp. Maybe it was better to tell someone she was ill and stay in bed tomorrow. All day. With Jon.

“Thank you,” he said, rolling over and taking her with him, pressing her back to his chest and settling his head on the curve of her neck.

“No, thank you,” she corrected him, “For showing me your chambers. I think they are lovely.”

She pulled the blanked over them, not caring if the pillows were at their feet. That was a problem for latter. Definitely.

Jon kissed her shoulder, but in a moment his breath stilled and she was sure he had fallen asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

She hid her head in the blankets, screwing her eyes shut. She could almost see the white light of dawn through her eyelids, telling her it was time to leave before her serving girl came with hot water for her to wash herself and noticed that her lady was not in her room.

Sansa did not want to wake up. Not just yet. If she was asleep then Jon would be right next to her, holding her close by her waist, both of them tangled in each other until it was impossible to tell where exactly one ended and the other began.

Jon never stayed with her until daybreak. Usually a couple of hours before she would feel the mattress shift, waking her up, and when she opened her eyes he was almost fully dressed. Then, in less than a heartbeat, he gave her a quick kiss and left, with only his smell on the pillow to remind Sansa that she had not been dreaming.

This time had been different. Someone had knocked at the door. She had felt him get up, but Sansa had buried her face in the pillow and her hair beneath the sheets, ignoring what might have been happening. It could have been any girl in bed with Jon, really. No one at Winterfell would care about that.

Then she had heard a clank of something against wood and the mattress sinking beside her. A moment later Jon’s head was resting on the crook of her neck, his warm breath caressing her skin and lulling her to sleep again.

Now she knew it was late. Jon always got up earlier than her, so she knew they brought water to him before they took it to her. After that she knew she had less than an hour before being found absent in her own room. But Sansa had fallen asleep anyway, so perhaps now it was too late after all.

Well, that was a problem for later. First she needed to disentangle Jon from her, or else she might as well stay there forever. She dug her fingers in his hair, gently disentangling his curls to wake him up.

“Jon,” she whispered in his ear. “Jon, dear, wake up. I have to go.”

He sighed, revealing that he had indeed woken up. However, he chose to grunt and bury his face in her chest, his hands pulling her waist to him.

How sensible of him.

“No, you don’t,” he mumbled, his voice still rough from sleep.

“My maid will find out I am not in my room,” Sansa argued, caressing his back, trying as hard as she could not to believe his words. How she wished she did not have to leave.

“You are a smart woman,” Jon whined, nuzzling her neck with his nose. “I am sure you can come up with some excuse. That you woke up earlier for some prayers or something like that.”

One of his hands lowered slowly through the curve of her hip, until it cupped her behind. Then something poked her thigh.

“Jon, I am afraid that I will not be able to walk for a week if you do not give me some rest,” she protested, grabbing his wrist and throwing his arm away. In a heartbeat, she had gotten up and started to gather her clothes, one of her stockings next to the door, the other one hanging from the back of a chair, the dress in front of the window…

“You’re the one that should give me some rest!” Jon protested, sitting on the bed and stretching his arms. Sansa froze for a moment, looking at his swollen face, then his naked chest, and she wished that she did not have to say her farewells to Lady Mormont instead of staying in bed with Jon all day. Even if they just slept, that was already good enough for her.

“And you should not complain. You seemed more than eager last night!” she scolded, sitting next to him and starting to braid her hair. “Gods, you seem more than eager right now!”

She felt his hand on her back, gently tying the laces of her dress. That was new.

“I will send the queen a raven today,” she said, her hands resting on her lap.

“Oh.”

“You are the best match, really. Any man or woman in the North loves you, and they would sooner follow you than any other,” she continued, playing with her fingers. “Also, you have the right family name. The best two, actually.”

“I am a Snow,” Jon corrected, his tone somewhat harsh.

“Yes, of course. But your mother was a Stark, and your father a Targaryen. I doubt anyone in Westeros could rival your ancestry.”

“I am a bastard, Sansa. You should not try to convince yourself otherwise.”

“Well, I am not. Not for me, that is,” she said, turning to him and cupping his face. “I do not care what your name is, besides Jon. That is all I need, really. But the queen needs something more, does she not? We need something more if we want to convince her that you are the right man to marry me.”

Jon leaned forward and kissed her. Gods, he was truly committed to making her stay.

“I really have to go, dear,” Sansa said, getting up as soon as they parted. “Also, I assumed you would still want to marry me, though.”

“Of that you may be certain, love,” he assured her.

Jon’s smile was the last thing she saw before closing the door behind her. Now she just had to cross all the corridors in the castle and hope no one that saw her would notice she had the same dress than last night. At least all her dresses looked the same.

Sansa smiled, too, still thinking about Jon’s skin against hers, the taste of his mouth on her lips, his breath in her ear. She prayed to all the gods she knew, with every step she took in her room’s direction, that the queen would believe her. That she would agree with Sansa, and give them her blessing.

Otherwise, Sansa did not know what to do. Lately, the gods were being kind to her, perhaps after they had audited everything they had made her go through they had decided it was time to let her be happy.

She only wished, with all her heart, that they would not change their minds now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you thought this was the last of it? Well, there will be an epilogue (again, I know, I can't stop), when my professors let me write in peace instead of asking me to make powerpoint presentations. Let's just hope it would be before Monday, at least.  
> Anyway, thank you all for your kind reviews, although some of them not very articulate (that might be my fault, though). Hope you enjoyed the story!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter, hope you enjoy!

The raven had arrived early in the morning. For almost a moon Sansa had waited for the queen’s answer and she had started to despair. But that morning Alys herself had waken her up and gave her the news, wishing her the best of lucks.

Sansa had thrown her robe over herself and put on her boots as fast as she could, her hair no better than a rat's nest and her eyes still puffy. She and the girl had run down the stairs, trying to reach the bird as soon as possible.

Everyone in Winterfell knew by then that Lady Sansa was in talks with the Dragon Queen to marry the queen’s nephew, Sansa’s cousin. She sat him at her right in every gathering, as if he was her lord husband already, they always had their meals together and more than once the pair could be seen walking hand in hand as they checked the construction of the glass gardens.

Sansa was certain that by now everyone knew that they shared a bed at least every other night too. The girl in charge of bringing her the water to wash in the morning had find Lady Sansa’s room empty more than once. The boy that lit the fire in Jon’s room every night had noticed that, sometimes, there were lady stockings on the floor. Sometimes Jon overslept and although he tried to hide behind the curtains of Sansa’s room when someone knocked often he forgotten his boots where they could be seen.

Sometime along the way they had just stopped caring. Perhaps knowing their people would protect them was what finally did it. The queen would not like to know that the Warden of the North had disobeyed her, but then again what would happened if a treacherous tongue decided to tell her that Lady Sansa spent most of her nights with a man not eligible for her husband, to say the least? The Dragon Queen would not dare storm almost half of her country just because someone was sleeping with someone.

Or maybe that was a lie Jon and Sansa told themselves and each other, to keep on hoping. It was easier, although not wiser, to believe they could have a future, than to think that anytime soon they would have to put an end to it.

But now Sansa could not care less if it was a lie, a dream, or a possibility. She just wanted to read the queen’s missive.

Now.

Alys almost tripped on her own feet, trying to keep up with her lady, her breath wheezing behind Sansa’s ears. But she had to know. She had to know, for her head was starting to feel dizzy and her stomach surely would jump from her mouth in a moment. She had to know. And the queen had to agree, for Sansa would not be able to hide it for much longer.

Her trembling hand reached the bolt of the cage. She grabbed the scroll from the bird’s leg, and almost ripped it in her haste. She had to know.

“What does it say, m’lady?” Alys asked, sounding as nervous as Sansa felt.

* * *

She had sewn the most beautiful dress she could ever imagine. Alys and Jocelyn had done most of the embroidering, silver snowflakes around the hem and the neckline of the dark blue dress. Jocelyn had argued the colour would contrast her hair perfectly, while bringing out the colour of her eyes at the same time.

That morning, the girls had helped her get dressed and had braided her hair. Then Alys had fastened the cloak with the Stark sigil around her shoulders, giving Sansa’s arms a little squeeze, smiling.

It was nice to finally be surrounded by women she could trust. Women that defended her, and protected her, and guided her. Ever since she had left Winterfell with her father, many years ago, she had missed having that almost every day. Now she cherished Alys and Jocelyn’s friendship as one of the most precious things she had in her life.

It was the third time she would do this, but for her it was the first. It would always be the first, because this time Sansa would say the words before the heart tree and mean them.

Jon did not take off her cloak nor did she put his on her back. They were too similar, hers a grey wolf on a white field, his a white wolf, like Ghost, on a grey field. Jon wanted to be a Snow, even then. He would never be a Targaryen and being a Stark reminded him of his dream, as a boy, that Ned Stark would recognize him a legitimate son. And that reminded him that he might have been Sansa’s brother, a thought that never failed to make his stomach twist.

Furthermore, the Lady of Winterfell could not be a Snow. Nor could her heirs. So they kept their cloaks to themselves, for there were a great many things they did not, and that was more important than changing a name. Like how he gently caressed her hand while he said his vows. Or how she brushed a stubborn curl away from his eyes as she spoke theirs. Or how, when it ended and they were finally husband and wife, he looked at her belly and smiled, satisfied for having kept his promise of never fathering a bastard. Thank the gods the queen had let them have it their way!

Sansa hooked her arm in his, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked through the godswood back to the castle.

She would never leave his side. She would never let him leave. Let the southerners take care of themselves for the long winter. Sansa would not let them meddle in the North’s affairs. Look what that had done to her lord father, her lady mother, Robb, and all her siblings. Just because the King wanted Lord Eddard to leave Winterfell.

No, the Starks' place was at home. Together. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Her lord father could have listened to his own words and perhaps a lot of deaths could have been avoided. She was not planning on making the same mistake.

Ghost stopped in front of them, raising his ears as if searching for something. Then he started to run and they lost sight of him in a moment.

“Must have smelled some fox or something,” Jon said, shrugging.

“Let him, poor thing. No one to keep him company, it is no surprise he gets a little restless,” Sansa excused.

But as they passed in front of the north gate, Sansa could swear she saw a direwolf with yellow eyes and grey fur staring back at her. 


End file.
